Genesis
by SqueezyStan
Summary: Jareth is fighting to regain his crown after a Revolution left him a deposed king with a realm torn apart.
1. A New Identity

A/N: This has been a long time coming, and still will be. It's nowhere NEAR complete, and I've been working hard to rewrite chapters I lost when my hard drive crashed in spring 2006. Soon, though. crosses fingers

This is a tad dramatic (this first chapter, anyway), and I'm not quite pleased with it. It'll get there, I'm sure, but until then, it is what it is. Let me know if it doesn't work for you, either. Then I'll HAVE to fix it.

I don't own Labyrinth-related stuff. That's the Jim Henson Co. care of Disney. Enjoy!

_Chapter One: A New Identity_

He tugged the leather of his coat closer to his face. It wouldn't do for him to be recognized—not at this stage in the game. Various people stood waiting with him. He watched them with avian precision from underneath the silver fringe of hair covering his eyes. His traveling companions looked weary and over-worked. He felt for once in his life as if he could commiserate. Yet his face was a perfect cast of indifference as he surveyed his surroundings.

The railway was about five paces in front of him; many had already queued up in wait. He could hear the roar of the whistle echoing down the many distant tunnels. The rumble of the train throbbed in his chest as it pulled into the station.

The train stopped in an expulsion of steam. Hoisting his bag onto his shoulder, he stepped through the open bay of the boxcar. His boots clicked down the length of the car as he headed for the back corner. He would be traveling to one of the last stops, and so he wished to avoid tripping over other passengers exiting en masse.

An inconspicuous sparkle in the direction of the platform caught his attention through the window. Identifying the magic sensor, he inhaled a sharp breath, hissing as if stung. It had been a few short months ago when a run-in with one of these sensors had almost cost him his life. The guards had been on him with forceful immediacy, swords drawn and at the ready. As they closed in, he had taken a running leap into the air. Gliding on the wind, he extended his owl feathers and crossed the portal into the realm of the Aboveground. He was safe there, as it was a great feat to travel between worlds. Only one mortal had ever been successful at it.

Closing his eyes, he brought himself back to his reality. He fingered the iron around his wrist, thankful it was shielding him from detection. It protected him and left him vulnerable at the same time. While his magic could not be sensed, neither could it be used. He was left defenseless, except for the small dagger at his hip.

The train lurched into motion and the sensor continued its rhythmic sparkles. He hugged himself, fingers splayed across pursed lips in thought. It had only been eleven years since the Revolution. To an immortal, eleven years was by no means a significant passage of time. But he was jaded, having spent the better part of those years in hiding and on the run.

In the time before the magic sensors, he had wandered the Underground, never staying in one place for too long. The kingdoms had long since been dissolved and power usurped by the mortal council who called themselves the Iron Hand. The hand that had struck everything he had known; the hand he was determined to destroy; the hand that, even now, was still searching for him. They had come close to finding him on numerous occasions, but he had taken to using his near anonymity to his advantage.

He walked among his people, not as a monarch, but as one of them. He worked with them to survive in a new world. Many of them, he had found, were still loyal to him. From this fidelity, he realized he could build something useful. If they worked together, they might one day achieve some little bit of the lives they had once lived. He knew now what it was to work for one's livelihood.

He exhaled his grim thoughts and bent to retrieve his traveling papers from his pack. As he was made to understand, one could not get anywhere without them since the magic sensors had been installed. It was most fortunate, then, that of those still faithful to him, one had been a scribe at Taal Abbey. A child had delivered the papers to him outside the station with all the aplomb of one that knew nothing of his position in this new world. Half goblin, he thought, sure of the child's heritage. Hell, he had spent enough time among that race to know well enough.

Scanning the papers in hand, he read of the new identity his followers had given him. Mika Thresher was a storyteller based in the Vogel district. He had aged three hundred and ninety-five years and had no living family. His façade had been described accurately, complete with silver hair and mismatched eyes. Permission to travel between all but three of the districts in Taal City had been granted him. The penmanship was beautiful—an exact copy of the official papers as far as he was concerned.

A door near the front of the car slid open and a soldier of some rank stepped through. His heart galloped as he realized he was about to be tested. He affected a mask of disinterested calm as he re-read his papers. The soldier was making his way through the scattering of passengers, checking papers and questioning individuals as he went. Leaning forward, he avoided the soldier's eyes as his turn came up.

"Ha'n't seen ye 'round here afore now." The solder was suspicious. Mika, as he was now to be known, lifted himself up to reply.

"Ain't never been up here before."

"Really, now?" And, ah, where might ye be headin'?" the soldier pried, assuming an air of cautious thoroughness.

"Back home, mate. I've made a livin' today," he said, holding up his coins.

"Right," the solder narrowed his eyes. He held out his hand expectantly. Mika watched the curiosity before him. His shoulders were squared and the slight sneer upon his lips suggested more than a little self-importance. This mortal—for that was what his aura proved—felt himself above every other passenger aboard. Mika found himself rather annoyed by this simpering little human.

The soldier cleared his throat. He held out his hand again, clearly unhappy by Mika's lack of attention. The latter blinked and shifted his gaze to the human's extended palm.

"Oh, right. Here they are," he said, his voice cold. The soldier shivered at the lack of emotion in the voice, but ignored it, scanning the papers in his hand.

"The Vogel district, eh?" The soldier studied the silver-haired man over the edge of the papers. He listened to the answer of each question he asked, comparing the information he heard with the information he read. Everything matched, but he was still wary. He trusted emotion and feeling, but this man seemed to be void of those very things. He could not withhold anyone based on such mistrust, and so resigned himself to let this new figure pass.

"Well," he glanced at the papers, "Mika, ye may be headin' where ye may. Pleasant journey, then."

_On your way, mortal_, he thought viciously, as the soldier moved on to the next car. It hadn't been quite what he expected, that was certain. He was pleased with how easily he could still deceive, something so inherently him. Now he had only to calm his heartbeat, and thank the gods that months of planning had not been for nothing. He would ride the train to its second last stop to the outskirts in the Vogel district where he would meet his contact and head on to their hideout.


	2. The Return of the King

**The Return of the King**

The Raven was the only establishment of its kind in the Vogel district, and not because of any lack of interest in such business as was provided therein. Many had tried a hand in similar pursuits, but soon found they had not the disposition to weather such responsibility. For some, they could not bare of the possibility of losing all they possessed a second time, finding it better to possess little, if anything at all.

It was for this reason that the Raven had been so successful in the neighborhood. The proprietor had been an innkeeper before the Iron Hand had struck them like a fist. He could do nothing but sit and watch as the mortals tore the Goblin City from its very foundations, tearing up memories as they went about reorganizing the displaced denizens into separate groups. The new city, they said, would be far grander than even the smallest child could imagine.

Calvek tapped the keg of his stoutest goblin ale with all the bitterness the memories of his eviction had evoked. He cut the bunghole with more force than was necessary, nearly making a hole too large for the spout. Such was his ire from then, he had named his pub after a bird, knowing some pedantic mortal had gotten smart with his words, naming each district after a type of animal. It was not that he was a particularly loyal subject to his king, fiercely loyal though he was. No, indeed, he was just a cantankerous old man who had had his entire life ripped from him, only to rebuild it with bony and bloody hands. He would protect what was rightly his with a fist of his own, if there was ever the need.

Pouring seven full pints, he wiped the ale from the floor in the wine pantry. It was a long room lined with foodstuffs and large barrels of his patrons' favorite drink—not a large variety considering most of his clientele didn't come much above his knees and generally slept with chickens. He kept a small selection of a better vintage he had managed to acquire for those a more discerning taste—the kind of folk who did not live in the Vogel district, he had decided long ago.

He turned his gaze on the room where a set of stairs led to his personal apartments. He had built it that way to give himself a greater sense of security in that any intruder would only have one way to get at him. Now he questioned that wisdom as he cast his wary gaze in that direction. While he was vastly proud of his institution, it was just the perfect cover for something larger and far more important than he could ever imagine himself to be. He feared there would be no escape route should they ever be discovered.

The Raven had a particular reputation for servicing some of the more seedier characters, it was true. Cal would not turn away any person who could offer silver for his supper. It had turned out ultimately advantageous to his cause: he was loyal to only one ruler who had been kind and just to every creature without regard to race or ability.

Returning his attention to the cups on the tray in front of him, he was no longer Calvek the conspirator; he once again became Calvek the bringer of fine ale. At their usual table, sat a rowdy group of goblins. They were singing a raucous tune that abused every facet of the their mortal rulers, yet they did not understand what it was they sang. He hid his amusement and cleared his throat. It was a serious offense to be heard mocking the Council, whether the offense was understood or not. To save his own hide, he thought to relieve them of their gaiety.

"Oi, gents," he said. "And, ah, of whom do I have the pleasure of seeking compensation for the evening's merriment?"

The laughter tickled at his throat as he watched each point down the table to the young goblin that was by far the drunkest of the lot. "Friend Weech," said one with particularly yellowish skin.

"Friend Weech pay Master Cal," said another with huge brown eyes.

The goblin Weech could only nod stupidly, smiling out in his stupor, his eyes glazed over with a bright red haze. The other goblins descended upon him, taking him by the ankles. They shook him out like a dusty carpet in their search for what little coin he might have in his pockets.

_Probably not much with the way things are these days_. His thoughts had once again gone down a cynical bent and he grimaced. Opening the door to the pantry, he dropped his tray in the dish bucket with a splash. He'd have to get the girl to run for more water later, he determined as he stooped to wipe the water off of his boot.

As he looked up again, he watched a young girl descending the stairs. She did not look more than fifteen years old, he thought, yet knowing she was far older than that. Blond curls spilled over her a shoulders—_she got that from her da,_ he noted—and there was a serious look in her brown eyes as she bounced down the stairs.

"And where are you goin', dressed like a handsome young man?" he winked with affection. She smirked. "Have you adjourned already?"

"No!" she cried her exasperation. "It was all I could do to let them allow me to be the one to go; hence, the costume. Although I must say I rather like being free of a skirt."

"_You're_ goin'?" He ignored the tease, unable to hide his surprise. "I might've thought it would've been Daithe or Timm to go. Certainly not a wee lass like yourself!"

"Cal, spare me." She rolled her eyes.

"It's dangerous!" he retorted. "I do not think you ought be the one. We can kiss our lives goodbye if they catch _both_ of you."

"And I thought I'd escaped all the bickering!" she huffed, smirk in place. "Really, Cal, I'll be fine. No one knows of my penchant for…your everyday odd occurrence but you and him. Not even those blokes upstairs know of it—who, by the way, are eagerly awaiting one of your 1687 vintages—which they told me to tell you on my way out."

She pulled a cape around her shoulders, pulling her hair back under the leather hood. "Besides," she continued nonchalantly, "who'd recognize me under this disguise?"

"I'd recognize you, even if I hadn't seen you put the damn thing on." He frowned. Noticing he was truly upset—a feeling she hadn't gotten from any of the members arguing in his sitting room upstairs—she wrapped her arms around his neck.

"That's because you raised me like my own father would have, had he the chance." With a flourish, she was heading out the front door. "I'll be back in a few hours!"

"Fine!" Cal replied. "But that doesn't get you out of fetchin' the water in the mornin'!"

e

The walk to the station from the Raven was a short fifteen minutes. The girl had to force herself to hide her happiness and check the spring in her gait. She couldn't resist whistling the tune she had heard the goblins bumbling in their drunkenness. She had heard them while leaning against the mantle in Cal's sitting room while the other members argued about irrelevant matters. She was the only female in their circle, so they often ignored her. It had been that fact alone that had made them cautious in sending her as the contact.

As she arrived in the station, she sought out the clock near the gate. The thirteenth hour was very near. She just hoped the train arrived on time, or they would be risking punishment for violating the curfew. As it was, they would be lucky if they weren't questioned for being out so late.

The whistle boomed throughout the tunnel. She checked the clock again, feeling a tickle in the pit of her stomach. She had not seen him in eight years, since the Order had decided it would be wise to keep them separated should anything bad happen to either one. It was dangerous for her to be the contact, but she needed this.

The train screeched to a stop in front of her and she wrinkled her nose. Such a foul thing had destroyed the beautiful place in which she had grown; it clashed with what she could still feel present in her homeland. Iron and magic sensors could never completely dim it.

Tugging the hood further over her forehead, she waited for the steam to clear. The doors to the boxcars slid open, and what few people were left on the train trickled out. She stood there, seemingly aloof, but she felt as if her insides would burst. The tickle had intensified and it felt like her heart had plummeted to her stomach to make it even worse. Her eyes searched and then he stepped out of the car. She could smell him, and reveled in the tingle she could feel as his familiar essence latched onto hers.

She watched as his eyes jerked to her position. She could feel the surprise radiating from him, but his face did not lose its hardened expression of nothingness. She missed the times when he would come and visit her with Cal, before there was a Revolution, before there was Sarah. His expressions were never guarded, at least in private, and were always lively. But this, she knew, was a time where liveliness could cost a man his life, and his life they could not risk.

As he advanced in her direction, she took the time to study his face. He looked weathered, and somehow old. The Revolution had smashed the shards of his broken heart into smaller pieces that would take a lifetime to repair. The short hair astonished her; now silver as the darkest parts of the moonlight—no longer golden as when the moon had been happy, too. But then he was in front of her and a joyous smile emerged on his lips.

"Kaya?" he whispered, taking her into a tight embrace. "They sent you?"

"Not willingly," she laughed.

"Oh!" He was relieved, feeling as if he finally had some hope. He could feel her essence surrounding him, soothing him, and settling contentment over his travel weary body.

"We need to hurry," she said, pulling away. "A lot has changed in Taal since you've been gone. We must get to Cal's before the guards come on duty."

"Guards," he said, "what for?"

"Curfew. No one is allowed outside after thirteen on the clock." She reached for his hand, and pulled him toward the street. "If they catch us, we risk punishment."

The journey back to the Raven was quiet, solemn, and filled with a feeling of anticipation. He cast surreptitious glances at the girl in front of him. She still looked young, thankful she appeared to favor her mother's humanness rather than the wildness of the sidhe their father was. It worked to her advantage, giving her a natural disguise. He smiled as he felt her grip strengthen on his hand.

It was dark, but his eyes shined with what little light there was. He looked around him and marveled at the changes he saw. He would restore it if they won. _Not if, when,_ he reminded himself. _A city should not be two halves, one glorying in sunshine while the other wallows in darkness and pollution._ The air was rank and stale. _I imagine only those completely mortal live up above._

Kaya pulled him to a tavern with a sign hanging over its door depicting only a black bird he recognized. _Nevermore,_ he vowed. She knocked on the door, and they waited in silence. When the door opened, he recognized the man immediately.

"Well, what are you just standing there for?" came Calvek's irritated voice. "Come on, now. Get in, girl, get in!"

He pulled them through the door, and pushed them inside. It was dark, and all patrons had left for their homes for curfew. He shut the door with a click, and turned the key in the lock before securing it back on his belt. Turning on them, he bowed his head and held out his hand.

"It's good to see you, Cal."

"Welcome back, your Majesty." They clasped hands. "They're all upstairs when you're ready."

"Thank you."

Kaya pulled the hood from her head and unwrapped the cape from her shoulders after Cal moved through the wine pantry. She wore loose-fitting breeches that hid the curve of her hip while she wore the cape. The leather bodice was meant to hide her other charms. His smile was cheerless as he watched her lift the hair away from her shoulders.

"What?" A hint of a smirk played at her lips.

"It's only been eight years, not long at all." He sighed and turned away from her. He looked around him as he took off his jacket.

"Jareth, what is it?" All amusement had fled her features.

"You look so much like your mother," he said, jumping onto the bar behind him. He watched her lean into the wooden counter and lifting her chin, keenly aware that he was either avoiding her or taking the long way in.

"Cal seems to think I favor you." She arched an eyebrow in challenge as he brushed the hair out of his face.

"Yes, there's a lot of my father in you, too. Either way, you'd still be beautiful." He sighed, and looked at his hands. The silver fringe of hair fell back in his eyes. "I felt you when I stepped off the train."

"I thought as much," she said. She splayed her fingers across the counter top beside where he sat. Pursing her lips, she returned her gaze to his face, though his eyes hadn't left his hands.

"How long?"

"Since before you left." For the second time that night, his eyes jerked to hers.

"And the magic sensor hasn't caught you?"

"I don't think it's specifically magic in nature, Jareth." She turned around so that her back was to him, holding her hands out before her. "I mean I can't _produce_ anything—like your crystals."

"You're not even seventy-five yet, dearest. I couldn't accomplish anything remotely like a crystal till long after eighty."

"You are so very old." He scowled and she giggled.

"But," she continued, "it's not that. It's…" She whirled on him, eyes wide. "Jareth, it doesn't even feel corporeal. Shouldn't I feel _something_ tangible?"

He blinked.

"Well, yes. Unless—" He blinked again. She jumped when she heard his next words and saw that his lips did not move.

"_Can you hear me?"_ She watched him carefully; he was staring at her in concentration.

"I—" She shook her head. _"Well, yes I can hear you,"_ she replied. _"How is it I can hear you in my head?"_

"_Mind speak," _said he, tapping his own head as his forehead wrinkled. _"I don't think I've met a druid in centuries."_

"A what?" she said out loud.

"You heard me, Kaya. You've got a knack for—shall we call it empathy?" His gesture was graceful, if somewhat flamboyant, and it brought the smile back to her face.

"That would explain why it was so hard to let you go." He arched a quizzical eyebrow. "I felt _everyone's_ emotions. I knew I could rationalize it—something wouldn't let me, though."

"Well, now we know," he said, jumping off the bar. "Come, sister of mine. I have a resistance to lead. Bring me to the lion's den!"

Kaya took him by the hand and pulled him through the storeroom, up the stairs to Cal's rooms. She went into the room and looked upon the faces of about thirty men of varying races cast in a warm, hollow firelight. They looked up at her, startled that she would make so grand an entrance without knocking.

"Gentlemen," she said, "Jareth Arronya, King of the Goblins and Keeper of the Labyrinth."


End file.
